


Wrong Way Kids

by Maka (JanaTearce)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Inspired by Music, M/M, Modern Assassins, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanaTearce/pseuds/Maka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of Malik and Kadar growing up. They end up together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong Way Kids

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by [Gasoline.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59uWY1Yyr4w) It reminded me just a tad too much of Malik. And you will have to pry it from my cold dead fingers that Malik loves Bad Religion.

The two storey apartment was large enough accommodate the two of them plus the three older assassins they had been roped in with, because Malik wasn't old enough to singularly take care of his little brother according to the law. A very stupid law as Malik decided while he wriggled his arm around Kadar who lay beside him. He had been looking after his brother for the past five years every day their father had spent being an assassin rather than well, a _father_.

They had been given a room each to themselves, just like at home, but Kadar still crept under his blanket each night. “I want to go home”, the eleven year-old muttered. His hands clutching his brothers shirt as if trying to fuse them together.

“Me too,” Malik admitted, rolling onto his side and wrapping Kadar up in his arms. There wasn't much space in his bed, just like at home. Furniture was supposed to be practical and easy to be left behind or replaced, that was the kind of life they were living as assassins. But it barely accommodated the sixteen year-old, much less when in company of his little brother.

The lower half of his face Malik had nestled into Kadar's thick, black mop of hair as they tried to find sleep in their new home.

*

Most of the time they had the apartment to themselves. Most of the time life wasn't so different from before and when left to their own devices with nobody to care about what they were doing as long as they didn't get themselves killed, the two brothers found themselves accepting their new conditions more easily than expected.

There was new-found freedom in their new life as orphans without any proper adult supervision that they enjoyed in between of school and training in the little free time it left them.

The first night at the apartment Malik had found himself waiting at the door to his room when Kadar already had been fast asleep exhausted from moving and unboxing and all the excitement and crying because he was still eleven after all. But Malik had waited by the door, like he had every evening so many years before. He had waited for their father to come up the stairs and inquire after his studies, in that stern voice of his. Malik remembered going over the long, long, endlessly long list in his head for the nth time. Historical events falsified by the templars from earliest to latest record.

He could still recite them.

But for a moment Malik had forgotten the death of the man who had made him recite so much information over the years before going to bed. He'd simply forgotten and when he had realised that he'd wanted to laugh and then all of a sudden he had wanted to cry, though he couldn't tell whether it was because of the habit their father had ingrained into him or that he had suddenly missed the oh so hated nightly activity.

Now Kadar would never have to experience the agony of sitting by the door of his room on the cold, hard floorboards tired and frustrated reciting the same information for the nth time because of some stupid mistake. A thought that made Malik more glad than he liked to admit. Their father had been no exceptionally bad parent, but Malik would have to lie to say he had not had several questionable ideas about raising them. No matter the fact that they were assassins.

*  
On the third night Kadar had crawled into his bed the first time, like he had so many other nights after a nightmare. Malik had woken in an instant and fallen asleep again just as fast as soon as Kadar had been comfortable and asleep.

*

Saturdays were oddly shaped pancakes and cartoons before their father woke up and would force them to watch anything more educational than their program of choice.

Kadar was sitting on the kitchen counter. Nobody had allowed it, least of all Malik, but that had never stopped his little brother who now sat crossed legged on the counter and demanded… “a fire truck? How old are you, three?” After a minute or so of the relentless stare of Kadar's bright blue eyes that conveyed hurt over the fact this brother didn't heed his wishes Malik gave in with a sigh.

The fire truck pancakes had some odd dents likely caused by accidents, but Kadar never complained.

Saturdays was Malik in their father's car, it was driving downtown to the arcade and spending a whole day getting high on sugar and playing silly games. It was showing off their skills at the shooters Kadar wasn't even allowed to play just yet, but Malik somehow always found a way to get him on board when nobody was looking. It was trying out oddly flavoured Slurpee's and rock music that Kadar kept drumming the beat to on every surface he could find, while Malik explained his favourite lines.

It was a Saturday when Malik turned seventeen so Kadar tried his best at making pancakes (they were decent enough to eat) and he gave him a new Bad Religion album (Kadar had memorised every title of the one's his brother owned) that Malik would put on repeat for the next two weeks and blast over the speakers in the car on their way downtown on the very same day.

*

Two years passed till they moved out of the two storey apartment and back into their old home. Two years with a taste of freedom, that was rock music and cold pizza for breakfast and ice cream for dinner. Two years of Saturdays that had belonged only and only to them and yet for the first time in two years Malik felt able to breathe as he stepped onto the front porch and unlocked the door. It slid open with ease though nobody had taken care of the house in their absence.

He felt like the terrible thing which had been clawing at the back of his throat, which he had tried to scream out with the help of music instead of his own vocal chords, he felt it receding as he entered their home. Like somebody had dug their hands into him and ripped it out like a cancer, like a band-aid, like you would rip a sample from a magazine.

And he breathed and was glad for a moment that Kadar was still at training for the time being, when he realised that he wasn't done yet. That he would have to tear away more than just the screams from his throat his father had left there when he had died.

Malik was borderline thankful for the fact that their neighbourhood only consisted of assassins. That way nobody would bat an eye because of the deafening music he tortured them with while he cleaned out the house.

He would make it _their_ home.

He would tear it down with all the hate and anger for their father, all the despair over the loss of their mother, all the bruises and cuts they had come home with over the years, all the lies they had told their teachers, all the nights he'd spent awake in tired frustration.

He would build it up and make it their own for all the times Kadar had named him his protector instead of their father, for all the Saturday mornings, for all the comics and books hidden under the floor boards (they were still there), for all the silverware abused as drumsticks by Kadar when Malik would have him sit through his favourite songs for the nth time. For Kadar. For Kadar. For Kadar.

*

Malik didn't hear his phone, but he saw the display light up between stacks of magazine that they had bought just because they knew their father would disapprove of their sole existence.

It was Empty Causes playing so loud Malik couldn't think, couldn't feel because it numbed the rest of his being that he felt it still singing through his bones when he muted the song and picked up the phone. He knew it was Kadar right away, but it was only now that he realised the time.

He felt very much like there was indeed an army in his mind when he left the house.

*

It was a half finished job when he got back with Kadar and the soon to be thirteen year-old glanced around their once-and-future-home. He kicked a half unpacked box and pried open the lid to see what's inside. And then he looked at Malik long and hard, scrutinising every line on his face with those big, blue eyes of his. “Sorry for the mess,” Malik found himself muttering, hands stuffed into his pockets. He was trying not to stare at his boots so he kept staring holes into the air.

“I like it,” Kadar muttered back. He mimicked his brother's stance and there they stood in silence.

That evening they had dinner on the living room floor listening to the album Malik had played hours before, only quieter and Malik had to remind Kadar several times to sit down and eat because his brother would get up and show him what he had learnt. Not like there was any room for that anyway.

*

Three years later it was a home. _Their_ home. And Malik hated to leave it behind, though Kadar had assured him it was fine when they moved into a flat two towns away with way less space. And Kadar assured him he didn't mind changing schools so close to graduating, assured him that this was enough. The two of them and their Saturday mornings and dinner for breakfast and too much coffee on the nights Malik had a paper due in the am. Though Kadar would eventually fall asleep next to him, or curl up in his lap and Malik would find solace in the quiet breathing of his little brother so close to him those nights, when he would have rather thrown his laptop against the nearest wall.

*

Malik didn't know how it had happened, but he was sure that he shouldn't feel like being twenty-one was the most un-fun thing in history. He felt exhausted most of the time. Physically as well as mentally, though he told himself he didn't mind the workout his job as an assassin provided. In fact it was probably the only thing he had right now to take his mind off the ever nagging expectations of society to become a social butterfly.

Like Kadar.

*

His world revolved around Kadar, it always had.

*

It was Kadar who reopened the claw marks at the back of Malik's throat. Stupid sixteen year-old Kadar who wouldn't think before acting, making him feel like he had yet again to tear something from his vocal chords. Tearing them open when he buried his nails into Malik's arm, scratching him as Malik tried to break off the kiss because his head was spinning. With a single sloppy kiss (which would have been cute bordering amusing under different circumstances) Kadar had resurfaced the unvoiced screams.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Kadar was sucking on a wound Malik had inflicted on his lower lip, which had ultimately made him let go. But only of his lips, his hand was still firmly anchored into Malik's forearm. “Kissing you”, he mumbled, and way more certain of his actions than Malik felt. But maybe you had to be sixteen to be that kind of stupid and certain at the same time. “I've always wanted to. I don't exactly know why...” And he said it in that honest, cleared-eyed way that left no doubt about his words being nothing but the truth.

And Malik couldn't recall what he had wanted to say prior to that because his head was still spinning and his throat was aching from words he'd kept inside but were entirely unrelated to the situation. So there he stood, staggering and lost on the inside and with the taste of Kadar and his blood on his lips.

*

Kadar giggled like only a stupid seventeen year-old would when Malik's fingers danced across his spine and he kissed the taste of some lipstick sample of his mouth. The sixth. Kadar had bought the magazines for no other purpose than for them to smear bright colours and lip-balm on their mouths and kiss it off. It was the most adorable thing Malik could think of considering Kadar's underlying plan to get him more comfortable with the situation.

Twenty-two was definitely more fun than twenty-one, Malik decided with a smile on his lips and the taste of cherry and Kadar on his tongue.

*

There wasn't any conflict left in Malik about what was happening the curses from Kadar's lips became ragged breaths that spelled his name.

There wasn't any conflict left in him and the way Kadar pressed against him, was merging criminally perfect into his personal space and cavity against his body. Which made it almost regrettable that Kadar had caught him off guard, weary from the adrenaline after a strenuous mission.

Kadar's hand was in his hair, idly scratching his head when Malik had buried his face in the crook between neck and collarbone. There was a scar there, just above Kadar's collarbone, that he found himself kissing. It wasn't as old at the others, it's edges still crusted from blood and newly built scar tissue. He'd gotten it during a stupid accident on a mission a day before his twenty-first birthday which had prompted Malik to start it out with stitching him up.

There was a smile pressed against his hair on Kadar's lips. Like only a stupid new-found adult would and Malik wanted to grab him and drive off to anywhere, like countless times before ever since the death of their father.

 _I've always wanted to._ Those words had stuck with him throughout the years, though Malik couldn't say why. And they clung to the back of his head just the same now. Maybe it had been the courage Kadar had displayed which had made them stick. Courage to be selfish, regardless of the consequences.

_I've always wanted to._

But the words were stuck in the back of his throat.


End file.
